


ACOTAR Role Reversal AU Part 2

by ink_like_starlight



Series: ACOTAR Role Reversal AU [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: ACOTAR Role Reversal AU, AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, POV Rhysand (ACoTaR), Role Reversal AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 09:32:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14892075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ink_like_starlight/pseuds/ink_like_starlight
Summary: In this world, Rhys is the human who has been taken to the Spring Court ruled by the High Lady Amarantha and her right hand Jurien. Their calm lunch is suddenly interrupted by the arrival of a familiar and devastatingly beautiful face.ACOTAR luncheon with Rhys scene (page 232-241)





	ACOTAR Role Reversal AU Part 2

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry is this one too long to read? Should I be splitting this into parts? I have no idea. I’m so inexperienced with this. ACOTAR heavily, heavily, heavily, heavily referenced.  
> Reposted from my Tumblr: ink-like-starlight.tumblr.com

Amarantha shot to her feet suddenly and her chair toppled onto its side. The clatter of wood against tile filled the house. It silenced the usual scrapes and flutters of servants. Time seemed to hold its breath. Rhysand’s skin prickled. Jurian stood and raised his sword, a weapon Rhysand desperately wished he had as he slid a dinner knife into his sleeve.  


“The curtains, Jurien–now,” hissed Amarantha. A hand hauled Rhysand out of seat and across the dining room. Rhysand understood enough not to protest, even if his curiosity begged him to, as Jurian pressed Rhysand against the windows.  


“It will be cramped, please bear with it.” Following Jurian’s whispered words, the metallic aroma of magic swirled around them. The air rippled. A glamour–to hide, to conceal.  


Then, to Rhysand’s surprise, Amarantha righted her seat and sat, legs crossed and leaning back as if it were a throne. A small dagger blinked into her hand. She used it to clean imaginary the dirt from under her nails. Jurian crossed his arms, sword in its sheathe once again. Calm silence blanketed the room.  


Rhysand knew–could tell by the way they frowned–that something dangerous was near. Something that could very well shred him for the mere fun of it. And it was coming straight for them.  


The tinkling silver bells worn by the Children of the Blessed rang through his memory. They’d been glamoured then, like he was now, and he’d only heard their cold voices–and their bells. Amarantha had said there were worse things roaming Prythian. Was this one of them? The table knife suddenly felt very, very small against his forearm.  


Heels clicked through the hall. Smooth, solid, confident.  


Amarantha continued cleaning her nails, the picture of serenity. Jurian angled his head to look out the window, appearing lost in thought. The scrape of shoes on marble grew closer, closer, closer. Like a clock counting down the seconds until–  


The door opened. And then she appeared.  


She didn’t wear a mask. Like the Children of the Blessed, she belonged to someone else. And… Rhysand had met her before. When she saved him from the three Faeries on Calanmai.  


With steps too calm, too calculating, she strode up to the dining table, stopping only a few feet away from Amarantha. She was exactly as Rhysand remembered: hazelnut hair braided down her back, fine, silk clothing deep as the night sky and edged with silver pure as stars, a flash of fair skin between her off-shoulder top and loosely hanging pants. Rhysand could never bring himself to paint her, and now he knew he’d never dare.  


“High Lady,” she breathed, just barely dipping her chin in deference for Amarantha.  


Amarantha’s voice, underscored by the promise of violence, said, “Why have you come, Archeron?”  


Archeron pressed a hand to her chest. “Really now, Amarantha? We meet again after forty-nine years and you call me ‘Archeron’?” She grinned. “Only my prisoners and enemies call me that.” Her smile widened, flashing teeth. Rhysand’s breath caught as she turned to Jurian, eyes sliding over him. “How is your eyesight, Jurian?”  


“Go to Hell, Feyre,” Jurian said.  


“You’re always so pleasant.” Feyre turned back to Amarantha. “It doesn’t seem like I interrupted anything important.”  


“We were having lunch,” Amarantha said, voice cold and void of emotion. A High Lady’s voice.  


“How exciting. I do so hope you received my present. Just a reminder of the past.” Feyre glanced around. “You’ve spent nearly half a century tucked away in your little estate. It’s ever so boring here, wouldn’t you agree? But much more comfortable compared to Under the Mountain, I suppose.” A pause. A smile. “You surprise me though. Forty-nine years and no attempt to save your land or your people. Absolutely nothing.”  


“There’s no helping it,” said Amarantha, voice low.  


With the grace of a cat, Feyre placed both hands on the table, bringing her face close to Amarantha. Her voice fell to a low, intimate caress of breath. Rhysand shivered. “You’ve always been stubborn. But this–this is absolutely pitiful. The High Lady’s title must have swallowed that brutal war leader from centuries ago.”  


Jurian broke in. “Shut your filthy mouth. You’re just Tamlin’s whore. What could you possibly know?”  


Feyre huffed a laugh, straightening. “Even if I am Tamlin’s whore, you will not address me as anything less than a High Lady of Prythian, Jurian.”  


Rhysand froze. A High Lady. That’s why those Faeries had run from her on Calanmai. If she was anything like Amarantha, Feyre could have slaughtered them on a whim. Could have slaughtered him. And the way shadows seemed to twist around her, the eyes that blazed like stars…  


“You have no rank here, Feyre. This isn’t the Night Court,” hissed Jurian. “Leave, no doubt Tamlin is missing your services.”  


Feyre inclined her head at Jurian, a small smile settled on her lips–and then she was upon him, a hand tight around his throat, fingers digging small crescent moons into his flesh. Fast, much too fast for Rhysand’s human eyes to follow. Too fast even for Jurian to draw his sword. Despite being shorter, her presence towered over him. Jurian pressed Rhysand back against the window.  


“Don’t test me, child. I was leading armies before you were even born.” As quickly as she’d come, Feyre withdrew, suddenly a few steps back. “But,” she said, casually, gracefully, “those are stories for another time. I’ll see you both again soon enough. Tamlin is already preparing for your arrival.” Jurian stiffened as Feyre passed the table, running a finger along the back of Rhysand’s pulled out chair. “I look forward to…”  


Feyre inspected the table. The table that had been set for three, Rhysand’s half-finished meal sitting right in her line of sight. She brought Rhysand’s goblet to her nose, swirling the wine. And her eyes slid over to where Jurian stood, concealing Rhysand. The air shivered around them as the glamour was slit to ribbons. And Rhysand, exposed, watched Feyre in complete and evident terror.  


“You glamoured me?” she said, as her eyes bore into his own.  


Rhysand could hear the groan of Amarantha’s chair as it was shoved back. But his eyes were glued to Feyre as she sauntered toward them, the wine a forgotten puddle staining the floor like blood. Jurian raised his sword between them. Amarantha’s claws–sharper than any blade she wore–gleamed.  


“Lower your sword Jurian,” Amarantha commanded.  


Jurian didn’t. Grasping the blade in her palm, Feyre pulled it from Jurian’s hands, launching it across the room without a blink or a drop of spilled blood.  


“Leave, Feyre,” Amarantha said.  


She ignored him. Rhysand flinched at the clatter of dishes on the dining table as Jurian was flung against it. Nothing separated them now, nothing but cold air. “I remember you.” Rhysand scrambled to pull the knife from his sleeve, but Feyre tore it from his grip. “Don’t bother.”  


“I will give you three seconds, Feyre. Leave,” Amarantha warned.  


“I wouldn’t talk to me like that if I were you,” replied Feyre, never breaking her gaze.  


Against his own command, Rhysand straightened. Magic seized him, forcing him up, tense. He couldn’t move, couldn’t protest, as a talon-tipped hand scraped his mind. He knew–one push, one swipe of those dark claws, and he would cease to exist.  


“Release him,” Amarantha said, but did nothing else to interfere.  


“Human minds are so delicate, so easy to break.” The hand pressed a bit deeper. “He has the most entertaining fantasies about you, Amarantha,” she laughed. “The taste of your neck, the way your breath would mix with his between a mess of sheets, how best to position you, what it would feel like to enter–”  


“Enough,” Amarantha snarled, her face twisted in such wild rage that somewhere deep inside, fear bloomed within Rhysand.  


Those claws made one more sweep of Rhysand’s mind and drew back. Rhysand collapsed to his hand and knees, shaking and sweating, trying to hold the contents of his stomach.  


“Tamlin will enjoy shattering him,” Feyre added, almost casually.  


Amaranth froze, her arms limp, claws gone, weak. Rhysand had never seen her look like that. “Please,” was all she said.  


“You’ll have to be more specific,” teased Feyre.  


“Do not tell Tamlin about him,” Amarantha said, voice strained. “Please.”  


Feyre’s smile turned vicious as she pointed to the ground. “Then beg. Beg, and I’ll consider it.”  


Amarantha lowered to one knee, head bowed.  


Feyre looked at Jurian. “You as well, one-eye.”  


Jurian eyes burned with rage, but he dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to the ground. To see his High Lady brought so low… Rhysand wished he could reach the sword Feyre had thrown, wished for anything he could use to make Feyre bleed.  


Feyre slammed her booted foot against Amarantha’s knee. Amarantha grunted, but didn’t raise her head. “Kiss it,” sneered Feyre.  


Amarantha held Feyre’s shoe in her hands and pressed her lips against the toe. Feyre chuckled, a cruel and sadistic sound, as she withdrew her foot. “Desperation doesn’t suit you, Amarantha. Becoming High Lady has made you soft. Or maybe,” she pondered, glancing in Rhysand’s direction, “it was something else.”  


“Will you tell Tamlin?” Amarantha asked, head lowered once more.  


Feyre smirked. “If it suits me.”  


Amarantha tensed, her claws peaking through the skin of her knuckles to scrape the ground. Feyre clicked her tongue. In one smooth motion, her heel was digging into the back of Amarantha’s hand, grinding down painfully. “None of that. Not with a guest present.” Her eyes slid to Feyre once more. “What’s your name, darling?”  


To give her a name, Rhysand’s family name, would be akin to forfeiting the lives of his brothers. She may very well drag Azriel and Cassian across the wall, into Prythian. She could hurt them, torture them, kill them. But if Rhysand hesitated, she might simply steal the name from his mind. So he spoke the first name that came to mind, a village friend of his brothers’ whom he’d never met. “Tomas Mandray.”  


Something flickered in her eyes, but before Rhysand could determine what, Feyre turned back Amarantha. “This was quite fun. I haven’t been this entertained in some years, really. I await our meeting Under the Mountain.”  


Then she vanished into nothing, as if she’d ripped a path in the universe and stepped through, leaving them in horrible, trembling silence.


End file.
